


Future’s golden, don't let go don't give it up

by queenofchildren



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Courtship, F/M, Fluff, Happily Ever After, In-Canon, Post-Finale, Rosvolio being dorks in love, also the Capulet sisters having a moment, but other than that absolute fluff, in-canon means all the canon deaths still happened and are mentioned, ruminations on marriage, very slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 11:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17866436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: Count Paris is defeated, Benvolio's honour restored and Rosaline's sister safely returned to Verona. There is nothing to stop Rosaline and Benvolio from getting married after all, on their own terms and of their own free will, and to finally try and find some happiness together.At least, that's what they think.But then things turn out differently, and Rosaline learns two things: How to be patient - and how to be wooed by a Montague.





	Future’s golden, don't let go don't give it up

**Author's Note:**

> This was another fic inspired by @unwrittenmusings' Valentine's challenge on tumblr, for the prompt „In-canon". I really cannot thank you enough for putting together that challenge! 
> 
> The title is from „Chariot“ by Mega, which you should listen to immediately because it's a beautiful „Rosvolio getting to be happy“-song. 
> 
> Also, this is 8k words of self-indulgent fluff. Like, if you're looking for subtle or gritty or anything more substantial than "look at them being in love", this is not the right fic for you. I mean, there will be some more serious notes, but mostly it's about them being in love. 
> 
> Oh, and all the historical stuff about courtship and marriage and trousseaus is very hastily researched, mostly conjecture, and most likely inaccurate.

“Benvolio will need to do _what_?”

Rosaline cannot believe what she is hearing.

When she and Benvolio were both asked to come to the palace for an audience with the Prince, she had not exactly expected Escalus' blessings for their union – after all, the last time she spoke alone with him, he declared his love and asked her to marry him, and she took the opportunity to plead for another man's life instead; the same man she intends to marry now. As a spurned suitor, he has no reason to be happy about this turn of events. But as the ruler of their city? He should be content that his original plan of a union between the houses of Capulet and Montague is still being pursued, voluntarily this time. And seeing as they were instrumental in uncovering the cabal that nearly brought the city down and cost him his life, Rosaline had thought that Escalus would be generous enough to put aside his personal feelings and thank them for their efforts.

Their Prince has only recently been recuperated from his arrow-wound, while Benvolio has been fighting Paris' army day and night until Verona's forces finally won out. Peace has only just been re-established, Rosaline's aunt thrown in the dungeon for abetting Paris' treason, and Benvolio reinstated as heir to House Montague. Things have just began to quiet down enough for her and Benvolio to even have a moment alone.

But brief though that one moment was, they quickly came to one conclusion: Wherever their future journey leads them, they will continue it together, and follow through on that engagement after all. They expected little resistance to the idea: Benvolio's name has been cleared, Rosaline's family is too caught up in trying to get rid of the stain of her aunt's treason, and the rest of Verona is still wary enough of a return of their families' civil war to welcome the union.

They have not made an official announcement yet, but Escalus has been informed, and Rosaline expects that this is what this summoning is about. Hopefully, she thinks with perhaps imprudent optimism, they will hear nothing more than some perfunctory well-wishes on their renewed betrothal.

But Rosaline is proven wrong: Shortly after entering the Prince's study, she finds out that he intends, once again, to interfere in their lives.

“Benvolio will be required to woo you, properly, before he may wed you. For half a year at least, and with all the necessary gestures of a proper courtship.”

“A _courtship_?” Benvolio repeats, incredulous. “But... barely anyone even adheres to such customs these days.”

“Perhaps. But you will.”

It is ludicrous, Rosaline thinks: Benvolio has already been betrothed to her, has had that same betrothal ended because of Paris' false accusations, has had his life spared only due to her begging for it, and has then proceeded to help save their entire city – and yet he is still expected to _woo_ her before they can get married? She cannot help but think that Escalus may have some less than noble reasons for trying to further delay their wedding with such rulings.

“There was no need for _wooing_ the last time we were betrothed, when it suited you,” Rosaline says pointedly, and takes note of Escalus' guilty flinch at the words.

“Well, there was no time for such courtesies the last time. Verona needed a union between your houses, and quickly. Now there is peace once again, but the people are still scared. They crave stability above all. And since your union is still very much a matter of public interest, it will have to be conducted in accordance with our every convention, even those that some people may deem outdated. There will be a wooing period, and a suitably long engagement, and every other sign to show that this union is meant to last, and that just like our city, it will prosper.”

“So we are to become pawns once again.” Rosaline's voice is hard, her hands shaking with anger. “Even saving our city was not enough to buy our freedom.”

“Rosaline...” Escalus sighs, and for a moment, she is tempted to feel pity for him, bearing such a heavy crown at such a young age. But she is done putting others above herself – she has earned the right to be happy, with the man of her choosing, and to do so in a manner that pleases them and no one else.

At least, she thought she had.

In the end, it is not Escalus' plea that softens her but the voice of another.

“Leave it be, Capulet. We'll never be truly free, not as long as we carry our families' names.” The words would lend themselves to bitterness, but there is only calm resignation in Benvolio's voice. He even smiles a little as he steps towards her to grasp her hands in his. “But once the wooing is done, we will be together, and that is all that matters.”

The words, the softness with which they are uttered, cause a pleasant quiver in her stomach, and Rosaline feels her expression soften as she looks at Benvolio – her betrothed, no matter what Escalus may prefer. The man she loves, delivered to her from near-certain death for another chance at happiness – and she will not let anyone take away that chance.

But while Rosaline is on high alert at the Prince's new edict, seeing it as yet another threat to their happiness, Benvolio seems much more ready to simply accept it.

“Besides, I've never properly _woo'd_ a woman before.” He flashes her a quick grin, and the rest of her dark mood dissipates. “It might be quite entertaining.” And heedless of the Prince watching them (or perhaps because of him), he leans in even closer, bumping his nose against hers playfully before stealing a quick, daring kiss. “And if any woman in Verona deserves to be wooed, it is you, sweet Capulet. So let Verona have her show, and let me spoil you a little. Gifts, pleasure trips, love letters... I might even compose a sonnet, and have it read by the town crier.”

At that last idea, a reminder of the very unwelcome sonnet that accompanied the start of their initial betrothal, Rosaline has to laugh despite her ire, and it is this that finally helps her find her peace with Escalus' renewed meddling. Because Benvolio is right: They may never be entirely free of their city's dictates, of the burden of their names – but that does not have to mean that they cannot make their own happiness out of those circumstances.

“You had better be serious about spoiling me,” she cautions, tempered by a smile, before she turns back towards her Prince and her voice turns hard once more.

“We will do the shortest acceptable courtship period, and not a day more.” She ought to worry about appearing so wanton perhaps – who ever heard of a maiden demanding to be married at the earliest possible date? People would speculate as to why she was in such a hurry, with one reason more scandalous than the next. But people have speculated and gossipped about her so much these past weeks, Rosaline has found that she no longer cares about their opinion. And as for Escalus, still watching them with a stony expression, well, he no longer has a right to an opinion on this matter either, or any other of her heart's choices.

“That you may do. And then, once your marriage has assured people that peace is still Verona's highest priority, and that her citizens are still upholding our customs as dutifully as ever, I promise you may live as you choose.”

This seems to be the most they will get out of this conversation, and so they take their leave, not impolite enough to offer any further protest but too proud to pretend that they are anything but deeply unhappy with the Prince's demand.

They exit the palace in silence, each lost in their own brooding thoughts, and by the time they're out on the street, Rosaline's carefully constructed composure is starting to crumble again, for some unsettling thought has sprung up in her mind and is steadily growing louder: What if there is a reason for Benvolio's lack of protest to Escalus' demand? What if, despite his earlier words, and the similarly sweet ones that have preceded them, he is not in quite as much of a rush to get married as she is? What if, now that mortal danger is no longer lacing all their interactions with desperate romance, Benvolio is finding his ardour towards her cooling off, and is glad for a reprieve before he binds himself to a “Capulet harpy” for good?

The thought is too much to bear, and certainly too much too quietly lock inside herself.

“You were awfully quick to agree to Escalus' demand,” she finally observes, the thought bursting forth sharply, and then immediately feels silly. Is she taking her rage at Escalus out on Benvolio?

But Benvolio shows no sign of wavering: He pulls her into a quiet little alleyway a few paces ahead, then stops to face her.

“I am as angry about that demand as you are. If I could, I'd marry you on the spot, and not let anyone try to take you away again. But as it is, I am resolved to make the best of our situation. And in truth,” now he looks away after all, eyes nervously flitting about the hallway and causing fear to sink into her stomach once more, “I am wondering if it might not be a good thing for me to woo you, properly. After all, I have been thrust into your life quite against your will, and I fear that, once things have settled down again, you might begin to resent this fact. I... I welcome a chance to show you that I intend to be a good husband, one who cares for you and strives to fulfil all your wishes, and not the yoke you first thought me to be.”

Rosaline is stunned: It seems they have both been burdened by the same fears without even being aware of it.

“Much has happened since then,” she says, not very helpfully.

But instead of pressing for more, Benvolio waits for her to gather her thoughts – yet another sign that he already understands her better than he seems to think.

“I have learned since then that you are a good man, kind and true and generous,” she expands. “Truly, no woman could wish for anything more in a husband. As for our marriage, it seems likely that our capacity to work together in a crisis will serve us just as well in everyday concerns to come. And I have...” another pause, another moment to catch her breath and gather her courage, “I have certainly begun to feel the kind of affection towards you that seems most important as the basis for a marriage."

“Then as long as you feel that affection might last the next few months, we should make it through this courtship.”

“Aye, of that I am certain – if you are as well.”

It is no more than a last little tremor of uncertainty – but she nonetheless feels relieved when Benvolio looks at her in return, steady as he was before, and says firmly:

“I could not be more certain of the sky being blue.”

And so begins their courtship.

***

 

For the next six months, Rosaline is being wooed – needlessly, by a man who has already won her heart with his kindness and courage and utter goodness.

And she has to admit – she does enjoy it just a little.

Granted, she would still prefer to simply be married to Benvolio already; a matron residing in her own household rather than a politely ignored guest in her uncle's. Not to mention that, like the citizens of Verona, she too would like to regain some measure of stability in her own life, and that very much encompasses the wish to be sure that Benvolio will not be snatched from her grasp again by some twist of fate. It is an irrational wish, of course, for she knows enough about the cruelty of fate by now to know that one is never entirely safe from its cruel jests. But then, should it not be all the more important to spend as much time together as possible? Instead, she only ever gets to see Benvolio at carefully planned times, in the company of at least one married chaperone, for pleasure walks and meaningless conversation and stilted, public exchanges of perfectly respectable gifts.

It is torture... and yet, there is some entertainment to be found in it.

For one thing, their chaperones are not as strict as might be expected, and most days, even their most public outings include a chance to slip away into some dark alleyway or shadowy grove for a few stolen kisses and frank words and a simple chance to be alone for a little while, and even short and sparse as they are, those moments are bright spots of happiness.

For another, Benvolio was not joking about intending to spoil her: Nearly every day, she receives something of his hand – a letter, a gift, a sketch of something he saw that day and captured for her. The letters are of course entirely unneccessary considering how often they see each other, but they are precious and beautiful nonetheless, full of simple, beautiful words on Benvolio's feelings, cheeky observations about her behaviour towards him as welll as thoughtful musings on love and loss and hope – all the things she imagines he would say to her, if he was allowed to do so in the privacy of their own household.

And since the entire city seems to be watching every step of their courtship, Rosaline follows Benvolio's example and gradually entrusts her true throughts to quill and paper as well, only to discover how liberating the medium is, how much easier it makes the disclosure of deeply private reflections – particularly when every such disclosure is rewarded, at their next meeting, by an even more fervently adoring look on Benvolio's face, an even longer letter in return, an even more heated kiss when they manage to sneak away.

***

 

The letters may be Rosaline's favourite thing about their courtship, but the gifts are certainly nothing to sneer at either. There are the usual little lovers' trinkets; flowers and delicacies and a set of mother-of-pearl combs for her hair. There's the delightfully thoughtful gift of a dress in deep Capulet blue for her birthday – and another, similar one for her sister. The dress is accompanied by matching cloaks, all in Capulet blue, as well as a second roll of fabric in the same colour, and it is this that makes Rosaline pause.

“Why only blue?”

She asks it the next time they meet, strolling along the river where merchants have set up stalls, and explains when Benvolio looks confused:

“The dresses, the cloth, the cloak – they're all blue. Capulet blue.”

“Well, like you said, it is your house colour, and I find it suits you well.” he looks suddenly worried. “Do you not like it? You wear it quite often, so I figured...”

“I do like it. I am merely surprised: Will you not wish to see me in your own house's colours once we are married?”

“I'd not mind seeing you wear them, one day. But I did not want you to think I was forcing them upon you, or that you must give up your own house in order to be the lady of mine. Besides, we are not as strict as you Capulets are, so our ladies choose different shades of red to wear with our crest. I thought you might like to choose your favourite as well, to make sure it suited you as well as your own Capulet blue. Perhaps this way, even as you take my family's name and colours, you may find a way to make them your own as well.”

Rosaline smiles at the sweet gesture, affection once more flooding her at her betrothed's continued efforts to make sure that everything about their impending marriage is as she wants it to be. She remembers his words after Escalus informed them of the necessity of their courtship, his explanation that he welcomes the opportunity to make sure she actually wants to marry him this time. Clearly, he intends to make the most of that opportunity.

But even as she tells Benvolio how much his regard for her wishes pleases her, Rosaline finds herself feeling more and more subdued as the thought creeps into her mind that Benvolio has perhaps caught on to a fear she had not even registered in herself yet: The fear that marrying him, no matter how much she wants it, would come at the cost of giving up a part of herself – particularly her ties to her family. And while there is only one person alive bearing the name of Capulet that she truly cares about anymore, the name itself still means something to her. It was her father's name too, her mother's, Juliet's, Tybalt's. It was a proud and strong name, before it came to be known only for war and treason and treachery. So, quite without knowing it, it seems she was scared of one aspect of their marriage after all: The thought of exchanging Capulet blue for Montague red as she goes from Rosaline Capulet to Lady Montague, and losing a part of herself in the process.

Rosaline has so far tried not to think of this fact of her upcoming nuptuals – there is no way around it, after all – but now that she has once more been reminded, she knows one thing: She has to face that fear and banish it once and for all if she wants to start a new, happier life with Benvolio.

For the first time, Rosaline does not protest when her chapereone announces that they must turn back for dinner, does not try to draw out their goodbye or linger in the courtyard until the cook gets impatient and calls her inside for dinner.

She says her goodbye to Benvolio more quietly than usual and slips inside, heart still inexplicably heavy and head swimming with images of dead Capulets. She spends dinner staring at the tapestry hung behind her uncle's head, prominently featuring their proud family crest, its blue faded with age.

And when dinner is over and her uncle retreats to his study as he does every night, Rosaline heads to her bedroom and turns to a corner she has so far attempted to will out of sight: The alcove behind the door where the wooden chest for her trousseau has been set down, that most central of any young lady's possessions when she is about to be wed.

But while any dutiful bride should be seen bent over that trousseau day and night, readying her precious possessions to reflect her new status, Rosaline has done her best not to think of the chest and its contents.

There must be very little left inside to begin with, as her aunt and uncle seized the more valuable pieces out of their hand-carved dower chests the moment she and Livia had to move into their household after their parents' deaths – pieces lovingly set aside for both of them since they were born; pieces that were meant to be the basis for their future. Back then, it had seemed a small loss compared to all their other losses, and Rosaline had almost forgotten about it. But contrary to what Rosaline assumed, the chests were not thrown out, and when he heard of her renewed decision to marry Benvolio, her uncle had hers brought down from the attic again to present it to her – driven by guilt, no doubt.

Rosaline was unable to even open it back then, too scared of what it might wake within her, but now she pulls it out towards the light. For a long time, she only stares at it, until she begins to feel ridiculous – in the end, in spite of all the memories it might stir, it is still only a wooden chest.

The lid opens with a creak to reveal a rather pitifully small heap of linens – the ones left behind because her aunt considered them too simple for her refined taste, no doubt. Looking at the linens, carefully folded and protected by layers of thin paper, Rosaline sinks to her knees as memories begin to wash over her, of long afternoons sitting by her mother's side and embroidering linens and towels and handkerchiefs until she thought she would go out of her mind with boredom. Back then, Rosaline would have much preferred to retreat with a book of some exciting tale, or to ask her father to take her out riding. Instead, she had been forced to embroider what felt like miles and miles of cloth and listen to Livia's breathless fantasies of the man she intended to marry one day, handsome and strong and daring.

Now, she would give anything to be transported back to one of those boring afternoons, sunlight streaming in through the windows of her mother's sitting-room and Livia humming softly to herself in between tales of her imaginary princely husband.

“ _Your initials and our house crest go in one corner, and the opposite will be adorned with your husband's initials and crest,”_ she can still hear her mother's voice explain. “ _That way, even as you take your husband's name and wear his house's colours, in your home you will always be reminded of where you come from, and that your marriage is a union to which you contribute just as much as he does.”_

“ _But why must I take his name at all, mother?”_ Rosaline remembers protesting, an obstinate frown etched on her face. “ _Why can I not keep my own name, for public use and not just on a useless piece of cloth?”_

“ _Because that is the way of the world, my sweet Rosaline – for now at least. And this sheet is hardly useless,”_ her mother had smiled over the bedsheet they were labouring over, looking up to shoot a mischievous look at her father who passed them by just then, ” _for it will remind your husband that_ you _are the lady of the household. You are the one he will confide in and make decisions about the future with. You and your name and everything you have become before you met him are just as important to your union as he and his name are, and only together will you prosper.”_

They were beautiful words, Rosaline thinks as she recalls them now, and truthful to boot. Still, at twelve years old, Rosaline was not appeased by them. Back then, she had only just begun to think about marriage and husbands in more concrete terms than Livia's fairytales provided, and the few times she had singled out a young man to consider him through the eyes of a future bride and wife, she had hardly been impressed.

“ _I doubt any man will even notice such a small detail. From what I can tell of the so-called stronger sex, they are only ever concerned with themselves. I doubt I'll find a husband who will even want to have a union such as you are describing.”_

Luckily, Rosaline thinks with a smile as she reaches for another stack of linenware, her twelve-year-old self was wrong on that count: She has found a man who wants the kind of union her mother once described, who is willing to listen to her and ask for her opinion and consider her in his plans for the future. And though her mother never got to meet him, Rosaline is sure she would have liked Benvolio: His peaceful nature and good heart have already been proven to be the very antidote to that old feud plaguing their city, and his sly humour sometimes reminds her of her father's similarly Puckish disposition.

Taking out the entire stack of bedsheets, Rosaline holds them close to properly examine them. All of them are done exactly as her mother taught her all those years ago, each with a set of initials and the Capulet crest in one corner, as neat and even as her stubby little fingers were capable of making them. Embroidering may not have been her favourite task, but Rosaline nonetheless laboured hard over those embellishments – not to please some husband who would probably not appreciate her fine needlework in any case, but to make her mother happy.

Tears scratch at the back of her throat but she swallows them down, choosing to get to her feet and pick up the stack of linens instead. Soon, she is seated by the fireplace, a near-indecent number of lamps and candles lit around her to provide light for a long overdue task.

That's how Livia finds her a little later, bent over a now-rumpled bedsheet and cursing as she pricks her finger for the dozenth time. It must have been years since she last did this – there was not exactly much time for fancy needlework these past months, and during her time as a servant in this household, she was too busy with other tasks; her hands turning too rough for the slim needle and silky thread.

“What are you doing?”

“Becoming a Montague, apparently,” Rosaline growls, irritated now at her repeated failed attempts to get a nice, round arch to Benvolio's B.

Livia sits down on a stool next to her chair and picks up a corner of the bedsheet – the Capulet corner.

“Your trousseau?”

Rosaline nods. “Uncle kept our chests after all, and had mine brought out when we announced the renewed betrothal. It only occurred to me today that I should perhaps finish it.”

“Why? I mean, why today?”, Livia asks as she picks up one of the bedsheets and the handkerchief Rosaline has set out on the table before her, one of Benvolio's that he lent her some time ago and which luckily has his initials and crest stitched in the corner for her to copy.

“We went for a walk today and I asked him why he kept sending me Capulet blue to wear and not Montague red. He said it was because he did not want me to feel like I must wear his house colour and give up my own.” She smiles, that besotted little lover's smile that she's usually trying to suppress in front of her heartbroken sister. “And it made me realise that I have been rather lazy when it comes to preparing for my future position. Perhaps because I was indeed scared of losing a part of myself with my family name. But then I remembered this trousseau and mother's words about its importance, and, well, I thought maybe I should cease to think of it as a loss, and begin to think of it as a mere change.”

“A growing-together," Livia adds, and Rosaline nods.

“Exactly.”

There's a moment of silence during which Rosaline is not sure what to say - a frequent occurrence these days, and yet one that still hurts. When did she become estranged from her own sister? They used to be so close – cut of different cloth, perhaps, but still always able to understand each other. Now, speaking to Livia always feels like walking on eggshells, and Rosaline has no idea what her sister is thinking.

She certainly does not expect the next thing that comes out of her mouth.

"I am happy for you, and Benvolio."

Rosaline smiles. She has been worried whether her sister and her betrothed would get along; whether her sister would be able to see past his family name and come to appreciate him for the good man he was.

"And you seem happy with your choice as well. But sometimes I wonder..." Livia pauses, a silence loaded enough to make her nervous. "You were always so adamantly against marriage. Has that opinion really changed? Or do you perhaps feel that... Well, that it falls to you to secure our future?"

For a moment, Rosaline is stunned, the stupidly besotted part of her actually insulted at the suggestion. But she knows her sister would not ask it if she did not genuinely worry about her. And besides, it hits her suddenly: She has done her best not to let Livia see that stupidly besotted part of her – how could her sister possibly know how very much marrying Benvolio is a selfish decision of hers?

"I promise you, that is not the case. I changed my mind because I want to marry Benvolio, and feel certain that I will be happy with him.”

She says it surely and precisely, intent to leave not a shred of doubt behind in her sister's mind, and Livia nods.

“In that case, you have my blessing.”

“I do?”

She asks it with a little laugh, but in truth, Rosaline is relieved to hear the words. Legally, the only person who had to approve of her marrying Benvolio was her uncle – but the only person whose opinion matters to her is her sister, and hearing her give her blessing fills Rosaline with sudden emotion.

Setting down cloth and needle, she turns to envelop her sister in a crushing hug, so sudden Livia actually startles a little.

“Thank you.”

When she pulls back, Livia's eyes are shining with tears, and Rosaline can feel her own prickling as well. She laughs, a little embarrassed at feeling so awkward around the one person who knows her best.

“Now, if you excuse me, I must get back to work. I'll not have my future husband think me lazy,” Rosaline jests, and Livia makes a face.

“A Montague, judge a Capulet? Unthinkable!”

With that dramatic exclamation, she picks up a needle, thread, and piece of linen herself, and begins copying Rosaline's work.

“We won't let it come to that.“

“You want to help?”

“Of course. I doubt I'll need my own trousseau readied anytime soon – I might as well help with yours. Make sure that you're all set and ready when you move into the lion's den.”

For a moment, Rosaline startles at her sister's casual remark about her own recent heartbreak and future marriage prospects – eloping with a traitor who attacked their city was a decision that has not exactly made her popular, despite Escalus' full pardon and Isabella's public support. But right now, it seems Livia does not want to dwell on her own pain, and Rosaline takes it as a welcome sign that these wounds too are starting to heal over.

“You know, not all Montagues are evil. At least, Benvolio is not. He is a good man.”

“I know – you mention it at least once a day, if not more.”

Livia's teasing seems to be getting a little out of hand, Rosaline thinks – but her voice is already turning serious as she begins work on the elaborate crest.

“In any case, we have your work cut out for us,” she comments. “I remember when we sat with mother to do these – it took hours and hours.”

“I know, I have been reminded of the same thing earlier. So many hours of stitching, and we are still not finished.”

Livia chuckles.

“Personally, I find it quite relaxing.”

Rosaline cannot bring herself to agree with that assessment – but she certainly won't protest when her sister has found something she enjoys, something that might take her mind off of Paris and Juliet and their aunt and the war.

Tonight will not be the night they finally speak of all those things – but for now, simply sitting together, working side by side in peaceful silence, is perhaps enough.

***

 

The next time Benvolio comes by to pick her up for a drive out to the countryside, Rosaline bids him drive her through the city instead, to her mother's old clothmerchant.

“I have a shade of Montague red to pick for a dress or two,” she explains. “It won't do to have a lady of House Montague spurn her husband's colour.”

That evening, after a lengthy stop at all the clothmerchants' stalls, Rosaline returns to her uncle's house with several bundles of cloth, all in different shades of deep crimson. She's found her shade of Montague red, and while the seamstress fashions some dresses for her out of them, she still has plenty of linens to embroider.

Still, she sets about the task with a lighter heart than she had the day before – a task that, for once, signals no loss but the gain of something promising.

***

 

Slowly, slowly their wedding creeps closer and ever closer. But while the progress of time appears to grind on slower every day, in Rosaline's perception, Benvolio seems quite content to let things continue as they are for longer than Rosaline thinks her sanity will withstand.

“Call me crazy,” he observes one afternoon, perched against a fence in a spot behind her uncle's stables that is near-impossible to watch from any of the house's windows, with Rosaline standing between his legs and her arms around his neck, “but this courtship might not be the _worst_ thing.”

Rosaline gasps in pretend shock – she has learned by now that, as much as her betrothed enjoys teasing her, he enjoys it near as much when she teases back.

“Are you saying that your poems are lies? That you are _not_ in fact pining and perishing with the fervent wish to finally hold me in your arms?”

“Oh, trust me, that wish is as fervent as ever, and grows more violent every time one of your damned chaperones catches up with us. But I simply meant that, well, all this letter-writing gives us a chance to really share our thoughts. I am learning a little more about Rosaline Capulet each day, and I've never been a happier student.”

“But you'd learn those same things if we were wed – and more, for we'd have more time to spend together, and fewer distractions.”

“Or, seeing as we'd be counted among Verona's most influential couples, we might have less time, particularly in the beginning: We'd have visitors and invitations, a household to furnish and servants to hire... We might not have all that much time to talk.”

“We'd find the time, an it be late at night...”, Rosaline argues, but finds that her argument only incites a positively sinful little smirk.

“Really? Or would we perhaps have _other_ things to do, late at night?”

She blushes, knowing well what he's alluding to, and allowing herself to imagine it for a moment, even if her sheltered mind has not much to feed her imagination on what, exactly, married people might do at night. Still, what little she can imagine is quite enough to make her blood rush quicker, her insides hum with delight.

“We would do both – we'd do... _those_ things,” her face is burning now, but Benvolio's hands have begun to run back and forth along her sides and down her back to glide daringly across the bustle of her skirt, and even as her cheeks are heated by embarrassment, her insides are warmed by something else, “and then we would still find the time to talk, for I know I could never fall asleep while listening to your thoughts.”

“We'd be caught yawning at every meeting and invitation the next day,” Benvolio laughs, though he does not seem like he'd mind that in the slightest.

“A small price to pay, I wager,” Rosaline replies, and sees her words confirmed with a swift kiss.

Still, when it ends, her thoughts circle back once more to the beginning of this conversation.

“Do you really think it will be that way? That we'll be driven apart by responsibilities, and not find the time to simply be together?”

“I know not – as much as I look forward to wedding you, I've no idea what to expect from being a husband. I know not how other couples shape their lives, but I've heard enough men in taverns talk disparagingly of their wives' nagging, or despair of their lack of affection. And even if I promise I would never speak of you in this manner, the mere thought of thinking in such a way scares me.”

He really does sound worried now, Rosaline thinks – but he has perhaps never seen that those men in taverns are not the only examples of marriage. She knows Benvolio's parents died when he was young, and his uncle has been a widower near as long, so Benvolio has grown up in a household without its lady. But Rosaline has not, and she well remembers her parents' deep affection for each other, their wordless communication and united front in times of crisis, and even the occasional cheeky pinch answered with a playful giggle, the meaning of which she only fully understood once she was older.

Her parents were not worn down by their marriage, and neither will they be.

“That may be the way in some marriages, but it shan't be the fate of ours. And we can promise each other now to make sure we'll never so much as risk growing apart – that we will always share in each other's concerns, never let a disagreement stand unresolved, and never deny ourselves to show each other our affection. We've fought hard to be together, and others have fought just as hard and yet were denied their wish. We _will_ be happy.”

The words come out a little too fierce perhaps, given that there isn't anything for her to rally against save for their own insecurities. But Benvolio does not smile, or tease her about it. He only looks at her for a long moment, with that awestruck expression he wears sometimes that makes her feel powerful and invincible, and at the same time humbled that she got to meet someone like him.

“You really are the most determined person I know,” Benvolio finally says, and Rosaline's stomach flutters as if it had been the most poetic effusion on her beauty.

"And you are still as needlessly dramatic as ever," she counters teasingly, and Benvolio laughs.

"Guilty as charged," he agrees, and then leans in for another kiss. And for once, Rosaline does not think of the last time he was found guilty of something.

Those dark days are over.

***

 

In true courting lovers' fashion, they sneak out of the first ball they are invited to.

It's a New Year's celebration, the first big social event after the war, which Isabella insisted on throwing at the Palace in order to show that life is indeed going on at Verona despite their recent brush with tragedy. The ball is a magnificent affair, everyone decked out in their most splendid garb, and since Isabella has practically ordered them to enjoy themselves, Rosaline and Benvolio do just that, dancing and laughing and eating and drinking for most of the night.

But as midnight approaches, Rosaline feels herself becoming more and more tired of the chaos and merriment around them, joyful though it might be in nature – and looking to the man by her side, she knows exactly why that is: As the new year approaches, she would rather be with one person alone, and leave the rest of the world to their own devices.

They slip out without really having to plan it, quiet and unseen, and make their way through the city in the same way. Most likely, everyone in the city is too busy celebrating to pay much attention to one lonely couple strolling along the street. Still, they'd rather not take any unnecessary risks – Benvolio has no weapon on him except his dagger, and even at peace, there are still those that might seek to harm them. Adding to that the crispness of the night air, and their steps are brisk, quickly bringing them to the gate of the Capulets' palazzo – and to the end of their night together.

When Benvolio slows down and turns towards her for a lingering kiss, Rosaline knows what his next words will be – and suddenly, she hates the mere thought of hearing them.

When he pulls back, her finger is on his lips to block the words from escaping.

“Don't go.”

“As much as I'd love to prove my devotion by waiting outside your window, I fear I might get a little cold, eventually.”

“Not if you come inside with me.”

“I would not be let in at this hour.”

“No. But you could climb in by the balcony.”

Benvolio's eyebrows shoot up in astonishment – whether at her suggestion or at the implication that she knows how to smuggle a man into her uncle's house, Rosaline knows not, though either option makes her feel strangely proud. She does get a thrill out of surprising him, she has found.

Although of course, this particular knowledge can not be credited to her own efforts.

“I know because that is how your dear cousin breached the walls of our house to have his wedding night with Juliet.”

It still hurts to say Juliet's name, and she avoids it wherever possible. But today, it does not come with the usual amount of pain – it comes with a quiet melancholy that only tempers her happiness without dashing it entirely.

“So they'd been wed already then,” Benvolio replies, getting back to the topic at hand as soon as the shadow of pain she saw flicker across his face has passed. With the clear implication, of course, that their cousins might have been wed when they met in Juliet's bedroom, but they are not.

“Mere days, yes, and had not told anyone about it.”

“So if they had been found out, it would have been a scandal. And it will be the same for us.”

“I don't care.” She's clutching his sleeve now, feeling desperate and embarrassed and, she realises suddenly, appearing disgracefully wanton. “I don't mean for anything improper to happen...” Although, she has to admit, after only getting to taste tempting morsels of what pleasure their marriage might hold in store, she is starting to feel a _little_ wanton. But tonight, that is not what's on her mind – at least, not in first place. “I am simply sick of forever saying goodbye. I want to wake up with you for once, the way I should have for months if it were not for Escalus' meddling. Is that too much to ask?”

Benvolio looks at her for a moment, soft and silent.

“No. It is not.” A shaky breath, a slightly more certain smile, then he takes her hand to squeeze it briefly before stepping back. “Well then. Go ahead, and once you are sure there's no one around to see me, open the blinds on your window. I'll be over the garden wall by then.”

She does as told, an easy task to carry out: Most of their servants are out celebrating on their own, at taverns and festivities throughout the city. The only ones left are a handful of guards, too preoccupied with their own chatter to pay much attention to her. She wishes them a happy new year and a good night, and by the time she's reached the top of the stairs, they are already back to their cards and watered-down wine – a concession made by her uncle on the condition that they indulge only enough to still remain vigilant.

Her uncle is the only family member left at the house, her sister having been persuaded by Isabella to attend the ball as one of her ladies-in-waiting, and the sliver of light underneath the door to his study tells her he is still awake. But the windows of his study face the street, and her room is all the way at the other end of the hall. The Capulet patriarch will neither see nor hear of Benvolio.

Just to make sure he also won't interrupt them later, Rosaline goes to knock on his study door, popping in her head when there is no reply.

“I am home, uncle, safe and sound. Livia will stay the night at the palace at Isabella's invitation.”

She does not know if he cares to hear his nieces both safe and accounted for – she knows a part of him cares about them, but the last months have also shown that there's a limit to this love when there are other things to be gained. Besides, since Juliet died and her aunt was incarcerated for her role in Paris' coup, her once proud uncle is no more than a shell of the man he was before. For the past months, seeing him like this has failed to stir Rosaline's sympathy – too grave have been his failings as head of the family, in her eyes. He deserved no pity, she thought, just like he had shown no pity for her when he had sold her off for Montague gold.

But tonight, with her future so near, and with the knowledge that she has someone left who loves her while her uncle must feel deeply how much his own ignorance and wilfulness have cost him, tonight she feels merciful.

She walks over to where he's sitting in his chair, half-asleep with heavy wine, and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, uncle.”

He is surprised by her sudden approach, she can tell even though the reaction is delayed – surprised and confused.

“Rosaline? Have you just come in?”

“'tis not that late – not yet midnight.”

“Did you enjoy the ball?”

“I did. It was a beautiful celebration.” She squeezes his shoulder, feeling her capacity for tenderness wane. “I'm going to bed now, and so should you. Tomorrow is a new year.”

A new beginning, she thinks hopefully – but not for him, perhaps. Not after his part in the past year's tragedies.

But those are sins of the fathers, and not hers to pay for.

She leaves without another word. Her uncle may heed her advice or not, she'll not stay to take care of him. He had a daughter for that and lost her through his own pride, she thinks stubbornly, and feels that melancholy pang again at the memory of dear Juliet. But tonight, she pushes it aside: Tonight will not be about her family's mistakes – it will be about the one thing she herself did right.

Rosaline carefully closes and locks the door, pressing a pillow roll against the doorstep to make sure their voices won't carry outside to the corridor. Then she opens the blinds – only to have to stifle a shriek when Benvolio is already standing outside on the balcony.

“I thought you said you'd wait for my signal before you came up.”

“Well, it took you an awfully long time to signal.” Stepping into the room, he pulls her close for a quick kiss, just this side of inappropriate. “You're not the only one who gets impatient sometimes.”

“Well, it has been several minutes at least,” Rosaline teases, then drops the humour from her voice to explain. “I went to say goodnight to my uncle. If he was not informed of my return, he might have sent someone to look for me.”

“So now we will not be interrupted?”

A languid smile accompanies the question, and Rosaline suddenly regrets saying she has no intention of doing anything inappropriate. Perhaps being a _little_ inappropriate might not hurt?

And with that thought in mind, she pulls him back towards her for another kiss, and does not let go until they're both thoroughly out of air and, somehow, standing by the side of the bed.

Taking his hand, she pulls him down with her when she lays down on the bed.

He follows her wordless command without objection, without question and, uncharacteristically, without taking the chance to make a bawdy joke.

Those things might come later, they both know, once they're wed and installed in their own home. For now, they simply enjoy being together, holding each other for long, sweet kisses and stretches of comfortable silence.

Outside, the clock strikes midnight, and the streets erupt into cheers and laughter, music and shouts and the night's first brawls.

But to Rosaline, the revels outside are nothing but a faint murmur, no more intrusive than the sound of a rippling brook. _Verona is safe_ , it whispers to her, _its people are happy_. But in this moment, all Rosaline cares about is the fact that she is happy, and so is Benvolio. She knows because he's been smiling and joking all evening, and though his jests have become a little less outrageous now that they're alone, his smiles a little softer, that same glow of happiness prevails.

“I understand it now,” she whispers as they're lying in bed, both propped on their sides to face each other. “Why you felt this courtship might be a blessing and not just a punishment.”

“You do?”

“There's a difference between getting married the first moment you can, fresh off the heels of danger and uncertainty, and having the option of waiting for such a long time, a time filled with frivolities like love poems and flowers. There's a certain luxury to it – but more importantly, I think, there's the difference between _feeling_ like something is the right choice, and _knowing_ that it is.”

She takes a moment to look at him, watching him as he watches her, and leans in for another kiss before she continues.

“I felt certain that marrying you was the right choice from the moment I made it, and that I knew all the most important things there are to know about you. But now, after this time, I can say that I _know_ rather than just feel how right you are for me.”

Even in the near-darkness, she can see Benvolio's sharp intake of breath. But rather than reply, he kisses her once more, with hunger and fierce tenderness, before he draws back again.

His response is shorter than her speech, simpler, but it boils down to the same thing:

“I love you.”

And really, there is only one right way to reply to that.

“And I you.”

 

 


End file.
